


White Out

by clgfanfic



Category: Counterstrike (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 19:19:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clgfanfic/pseuds/clgfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the plane goes down, it's a fight for survival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Out

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the zine Teamwork, then in Addington International Restricted Files #3 under the pen name Jamie Hector.

          "Satellite link…" the jet's on-board communications system announced.

          Peter Sinclair glanced up at the large television screen as Alexander Addington appeared.  He was standing, leaning back comfortably against his desk, a smile on his lips.  "So, Peter, how did San Francisco go?"

          "Very well, sir," Sinclair replied, setting his pen aside.  "I don't think Mr. Calbath will be embezzling any more funds from Addington Aviation."

          "I'm very glad to hear that," the industrialist said with a chuckle.  "He certainly didn't look the type, did he?"

          Peter smiled, remembering the slight accountant who looked decidedly nervous and rabbit-like.  "No, no, he didn't."

          "Where are the others?" Addington asked, leaning forward slightly as if it might afford him a better look at the interior of the plane.

          Peter hiked his thumb over his shoulder.  "Gabrielle's in the alcove, sleeping.  Stone's napping on the couch."

          "Did I wake you?"

          "No, no," Peter said, shaking his head.  "I was just trying to get caught up with the paperwork."

          "Nasty job, paperwork," Addington commiserated.

          Before Sinclair could reply, the plane pitched violently to the right and he grabbed for the desktop to keep from falling out of his chair.

          "Peter, what's happening?" Addington demanded.

          "I don't know," the blond said, seizing the phone that would connect him with the pilot.  "J.J.?" he managed as the plane pitched back the other direction, sending the contents of the desk sliding onto the floor.  "J.J., what's happening?"

          "We lost an engine, Pete," the pilot reported.  "Flight controls are freezing up.  We're going down—"

          The line went dead and Sinclair looked up at the screen as the plane dipped nose first.  "It appears we're going down," he said by way of an explanation.

          Alexander took a step away from his desk, his face going decidedly pale.  "Down?  What the hell's happening!  Sinclair!"

The communications link went dead.

Peter felt the plane pitch forward again, then it leveled out.

          "Pete!" Stone called worriedly.

          "Stone, we're going down—"

          "Gabby, she's—"

          The impact came faster and harder than either man had anticipated and Sinclair felt himself falling.  He curled, hoping to protect himself during the impact.  He heard Gabrielle squeal as she hit the alcove wall.

          The plane slammed into the ground, then bounced and hit a second time.  J.J. coaxed the plane down a third time and they continued to slide across the terrain, the forward motion bumpy.  They finally came to a stop, accompanied by a loud metallic tearing and popping sound.

          Peter slowly uncurled and looked around.  It took him a moment before he realized that the plane was lying almost on its side.  He pressed his foot against one of the windows and sucked in a sharp breath.  Using his other foot, he pushed and climbed back up to what was normally the floor.  "Stone?" he called.  "Gabrielle?"

          Stone groaned and pushed some debris off his chest.  He allowed himself to slide carefully down to the wall so he could stand.  "Give that man a medal."

          "Check on Gabrielle," Peter directed, cradling his right wrist.  "I'll see about J.J."

          "You sure?" Stone asked, knowing what the ex-detective might find in the cockpit.

          "Yeah, I'm sure," Peter said, making his way to the door.  Forcing it open with his good hand, he pulled himself up and into the canted cockpit.

          J.J. hung unconscious in his chair, seatbelt and shoulder harness holding him in place.

          "J.J.?" Peter asked, checking the man's neck for a pulse and finding it strong and steady.  "Come on, J.J," he urged, gently squeezing the man's shoulder.

          The young black man's eyes fluttered open.  "Pete?" he slurred, then groaned.

          "Yeah, it's me.  Take it easy."

          "Oh, man, it feels like an elephant stomped on my chest."

          "You probably bruised or cracked some ribs.  Can you feel your legs?  Move everything?"

          J.J. did a quick check of his body parts.  "Yeah, it's just my chest."

          "Hang on, we'll get you out of here and have a look," the blond reassured him, fumbling for the seatbelt release.

          A distant rumble vibrated through the torn skin of the plane.

          "What's that?" J.J. asked, his voice pumped up an octave.

          "I don't know," Peter admitted.  "But let's get you out of here."

          Helping the pilot unbuckle as best he could, Sinclair braced J.J. with his good hand as the man slid down to join him.  Together they crawled back to join Stone, who sat next to Gabrielle, cradling the woman's head in his lap while he pressed a handkerchief against her scalp.

          "How is she?" Peter asked, fear draining the blood from his face.

          Stone looked up, relieved to find J.J. alive.  He gave the man a brief grin.  Looking back at Sinclair, he shook his head, lips disappearing into a thin line of worry.  "She took a nasty blow to the head, Pete.  It don't look good."

          "Damn," Peter sighed, moving over to join the ex-SEAL.

          Reaching out, he pushed the tangled blonde hair off her face and studied the pale features.  He checked her pulse, finding it beating too fast and too weakly.

          "Get me some towels," Stone directed.  "And some tape."

          "Duct tape all right?" Peter called.

          "It'll do.  Hurry," Stone said as the low grumble grew louder.

          Sinclair returned with two hand-towels and the tape.  "What are you going to do?"

          "Immobilize her neck," Stone explained, rolling the two towels into tubes and then placing them on either side of Gabrielle's head and neck.  Then, tugging out his clean handkerchief, he placed it over her forehead to protect her skin and used the tape to secure the towels in place.

          The rumble escalated to a roar in the plane.  Stone's eyes widened and he glanced at the plane windows, but there was nothing visible except the snow pressing against the glass.  "Avalanche," he said calmly.  "Got to be.  Hold on."

          "Ava—?"

          The tumult of snow reached them, pushing the plane over slightly like a wave catching a small boat, and forcing them further down the side of the mountain.  Stone lifted Gabrielle into his arms, protecting her head with his arms and keeping her neck as immobile as he could.  Peter and J.J. scrambled, doing what they could to keep from colliding with the pair while still protecting themselves at the same time.  The shaft of a tree limb thrust through one of the plane windows, just missing Sinclair's midsection before it was snapped off in the descent.

          How long the icy wave carried them along they weren't sure, but when the plane finally stuttered to a stop they were almost back on an even keel.  Stone was the first to react, checking Gabrielle.

          Peter and J.J. moved to the windows on either side of the plane.  "I think we're buried," J.J. stated flatly, hugging his right arm tightly against his ribs.

          "I think you're right.  Pete, help me get Gabby to the bed," Stone said.

          Sinclair made his way over to join the ex-SEAL, stepping on and over papers, cushions, and other articles.

          Together they lifted the young woman, Stone making sure that her neck remained stable.  The ex-SEAL puffed as they moved, sharp, hot pain flaring through his shoulder.  Once she was on the bed, he continued, "Okay, now we logroll her."

          Peter looked up, looking confused.  "What?"

          Stone extended one of Gabrielle's arms above her head.  "Take her other arm, and her hip.  We'll roll her onto her side."

          Peter nodded.

          "On three.  One… two… three."

          They rolled Gabby smoothly.

          Stone sat down on the edge of the bed.  "You'll have to keep an eye on her airway.  I don't think her neck's broken, but I can't be sure."

          "I can watch her," J.J. volunteered, trying to straighten.  He sucked in a sharp breath, and made his way over to the bed hunched over.

          "Let me have a look," Stone said.

          J.J. nodded and eased himself down onto the bed.  He unbuttoned his shirt and Stone pulled it up, then did the same with the pilot's white T-shirt.  He ran his hand lightly over the man's dark ribcage, prompting J.J. to suck in another sharp breath.  Stone gave a quiet grunt as he met the man's eyes.  "Cracked.  Maybe broken.  Don't move around, you could puncture a lung."

          J.J. maneuvered gingerly to sit alongside Gabrielle.  Peter carried two blankets over and unfurled one over the man.  "Take it easy," he said with an indulgent smile.

          "Slow and easy," J.J. promised, glancing down.  "Is Gabrielle going to be okay?"

          "Don't know," Stone said, deftly running his hands over her legs, arms, and ribs to make sure there were no other injuries besides the blow to her head.  "I think she just hit her head."

          Peter stepped in next to Stone as he checked Gabrielle's pulse and pupils.  "Damn," the ex-SEAL sighed.

          "What?"

          "Her pupils are slightly unequal."

          "Damn is right."  He unfurled the blanket over her and tucked it in.

          Stone watched, meeting Sinclair's gaze when he was finished.  "Where's the first aid kit?"

          "I'll get it," the blond offered, moving off.  He returned a moment later and handed it over, noticing for the first time that Stone was favoring his right shoulder.  "You hurt?"

          "Dislocated shoulder," Stone replied.  "You?"

          "Twisted ankle and…"  He glanced down at his hand.  "…a broken wrist."

          "We gotta get her outta here," Stone said.  He moved off, grabbing two knives from the silverware drawer.  He brought them back and set to work with the first aid kit.

          "I'm open to suggestions," Peter breathed, helping the best he could as Stone splinted and bound his wrist while he hugged one elbow in tight against his ribs.  "I was on the satellite link with Alexander.  He knows we were going down."

"That's something," J.J. said, adding, "I turned on the rescue beacon, so they should be able to find us."

          "Depends," Stone muttered.  "If we're buried they'll have a helluva time.  Then they'll have to dig us out."

          Peter glanced down at Gabrielle.  "She doesn't have that kind of time."

          "I agree."

          "So what do we do?" J.J. asked.  "If we are buried, we're going to run out of air.  Or freeze."

          "Best bet is to dig our way out," Stone said.  "Then lay a signal."

          Sinclair nodded, a grim smile playing across his lips.  "I agree, but how?  J.J.'s got cracked ribs, your shoulder's injured, and I'm hobbled."

          "Not to mention the wrist," Stone added.  "Guess that means it's me."

          "No."

          "The only option, Pete."

          "You have the first aid training," Peter said.  "She might need you."

          The ex-SEAL shook his head.  "I've done all I can, Pete.  She needs a hospital, and the only way that's gonna happen is if we get outta here."

          Sinclair wanted to argue, but there was nothing he could say.  Stone was right.  He nodded.  "Be careful."

          The ex-SEAL grinned.  "I'm always careful, but I've gotta relocate this shoulder first."

          "Can I help?"

          "Yeah."  Stone carefully slipped out of his leather jacket.

          Peter stepped up.  "Tell me."

          "I need to… make sure it's out…" Stone said, feeling a depression in the shoulder where the bone should be and the head of the humerus, a firm ball, about two inches below its normal location.  "Oh, yeah, it's out."

          "So?"

          "Grab me a sheet."

          Sinclair's eyes widened, but he limped to the small linen closet and removed a white sheet for the permanent bed in the plane's alcove.  "Got it."

          Stone extended his good arm, taking the sheet and winding it into a strip.  "Pass it around my chest," he instructed.  That done, the ex-SEAL laid down near the immovable desk.  "Tie the sheet to the pedestal."

          Sinclair knelt down, doing as instructed.  "Done."

          Stone reached across his chest, arranging the sheet so it lay under the affected armpit.  "Okay, take my arm and pull, nice and steady, at a forty-five degree angle from my body."

          "Forty-five," Peter said, swallowing hard.  He gripped Stone's wrist with his good hand.  "Right.  Here goes."

          Stone nodded, grinding his teeth together.

          Sinclair pulled against the sheet, Stone moaning as his eyes squeezed shut.  The blond let up and hissed, "J.J."

          The pilot slid from the bed and joined Sinclair.  "Need some help?"

          "I can't keep a steady grip with one hand."

          "Any time, guys," Stone growled.

          J.J. grabbed Stone's forearm above Pete's hand, pulling the best he could.  After several seconds with nothing happening they let up.

          "No!"  Stone barked.  "Don't stop."

          Peter and J.J. exchanged glances, but returned the pressure to the joint.  After a couple of minutes both men felt the give in several small movements, Stone's shoulder finally popping back into its socket.  The ex-SEAL cried out, banging his head against the floor.

          "Stone?" Sinclair said.

          "I'm okay," he managed as the breath he'd been holding exploded free.

          Peter helped J.J. back to the bed, then untied the sheet and offered his hand to Stone, who accepted the help.  On his feet, he followed Peter back to Gabrielle.  Stone wiped the sweat off his face, then checked her eyes and pulse.  Nothing had changed, and he hoped that was good.

          She moaned softly.

          "Easy," Peter said, reaching out to stroke her cheek.  "You took a nasty bump on the head."

          "Hurts," she moaned quietly.

          "Not surprised," Stone said, giving her a grin.  "Not supposed to break a fall with your noggin', kiddo."

          "I'll try to remember that," she slurred.

          "Gabby?" Stone said more seriously.

          She blinked and opened her eyes wide.  "Yes?"

          "You sleepy?"

          "Yes."

          "Nauseated?"

          Gabrielle thought a moment.  "No, I don't think so."

          "Any trouble breathing?"

          There was another pause.  "No…"

          Stone turned to Peter, his voice low.  "Try to keep her awake and talking some."

          The ex-Scotland Yard detective nodded.  "Will do."

          Edging past, Stone gathered up his jacket, and with Peter's help slipped it back on.  "Any gloves around here?" he called back to J.J.

          The pilot shook his head, but Sinclair crossed to the tiny closet.  Forcing the twisted lock open, he found his coat and pulled out a pair of leather gloves, handing them to Stone.

          "Thanks."

          "Least I can do," Peter replied with a tight smile.

          Pulling the slightly too small gloves on, Stone headed for the front door.  He paused there, then paced back to the rear door.  "We're slightly nose down," he said.  "And listed to port…"

          "Stone, this isn't a boat."

          "Ship, and I know that…"  Reaching out, he grabbed the handle and pulled.  The door unlatched, but refused to swing out.  "Damn…"

          "What?"

          "Too much snow pressin' against the door.  Can't open it."

          "Great."

          "Pete," the pilot called.

          The two men returned to the bed.  J.J. shifted, sitting up a little higher.  "Try the belly hatch.  That opens in."

          "It'll be a longer dig," Peter said.

          "It's a way out," Stone said, then headed toward the cockpit, stopping in the service area between the main body of the plane and the cockpit.  Next to the galley, he bent down and pulled up the trapdoor leading to the plane's belly.  A blast of cold hit his face.  "Here goes."

          "Be careful."

          Stone gave a half-shrug as he slipped into the luggage area, cursing softly as the movement jarred his shoulder.  "Keep her warm and awake, Pete," he said, when he looked up and found Sinclair watching him.

          "Wait!"  Sinclair hurried back to the desk and rifled a drawer.  Removing a cell phone, he carried it back and handed it down to Stone.  "Try calling when you get out."

          "Gotcha."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Addington turned and stabbed a button on his speaker phone.  "Miss Previn!  I need you, now!"

          "I'm on my way."

          A moment later the elevator doors opened, Helene and Bennett rushing into the office.  "What's wrong?" she asked.

          "The plane.  It crashed."

          "Crashed?" Bennett echoed, his eyes going wide and his face going pale.

          Addington nodded.  "I want a search started, immediately!" he barked, rounding his desk and dropping into his chair.

          Helene and Bennett both moved to phones and began making calls.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Stone opened the hatch to the outside.  A welcoming near-snow-free space greeted him, scooped out by the plane as it was pushed along.  Dropping to the ground, Stone reached out, pressing against the snow.  Stiff, but there wasn't much debris mixed in.  They were lucky.

          He dug a small cave in the snow, then squatted down, folded his arms over his head – cursing as the pain shot through his shoulder – and pressed up against the snow.  His upper body slowly disappeared into the cold crystalline white.  He pulled out.

          Stone stomped the dislodged snow into a base before shoving upward again.  Pausing, he sucked his lower lip, then let a dribble of spit fall over his lips.  It dropped towards his shoes, confirming that he was headed in the right direction.

          Several minutes of digging, pressing, and stomping through the packed snow and he broke through to the surface.  Sunlight glared off the white surface, nearly blinding him.  Slipping on the sunglasses he carried in his jacket pocket solved part of the problem.

          Reaching into his other pocket, he pulled the cell phone free and punched out 9-1-1.  With a sigh, he returned the phone to his jacket pocket and bent down, yelling, "Pete!"

          "Stone?"

          "I'm out.  It's eight, maybe ten feet."

          "The cellular?"

          "Nothing."

          "Damn."

          "Pete, listen, with the tunnel you'll get air.  It's warmer in the plane.  Stay there."

          "What about you?" Sinclair called back, the concern clear in his voice.

          "Gonna lay out an SOS, then I'll be back to thaw out."

          "Right.  Be careful."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Addington paced in front of his desk, watching Helene and Bennett as they manned the phones.  He wished he could do more, but right now he knew he would just be in their way if he tried.

          "Stapleton International Airport in Denver had them on radar," Helene said, cupping her hand over the receiver.  "When they lost their signal they initiated a search."

          "Colorado Search and Rescue is on their way to the area," Bennett continued, hanging up and immediately dialing another number.  "I'm calling their operations base there now."

          "The plane's homing beacon is broadcasting," Helene relayed.  "The FAA representative in Denver says that Search and Rescue should be able to use that to find them within a few hours."

          "The local weather is clear at present, but there's a storm expected late tomorrow morning, Denver time," Bennett said.  "If it is snowing there by mid-morning they will have to call off the search."

          "I want to hear as soon as they're located," Addington said, coming to a halt.  "Bennett, I want to be on the next Concord flight to New York.  Have a plane waiting there for us."

          "Yes, sir.  What shall I tell them is the destination?"

          "Denver, of course!"

          "Yes, sir."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Stone struggled through the snow, sinking nearly to his hips with each step.  He paused for a moment to catch his breath.  Another thirty yards and he'd reach the stand of pines where he could cut boughs for his SOS.  He started forward again, trying to move as carefully as possible, not wanting to trigger another slide.  There was simply no way to know what the terrain under the snow was.  If it happened to be a steep slope…

Hugging his injured arm tight against his ribs, he pushed himself on, trying to ignore the dull throb in his shoulder.  It climbed up his neck and settled into the base of his skull where it set a vice-like grip on his head, making each step a trial of his endurance and resolve.

He refused to stop.  He didn't have much time; his hands and feet were already growing numb.  At least the plane wasn't completely buried.  The tail and one wing jutted up out of the snow, reflecting the sunlight like bright beacons.  A few scattered boughs and they'd have an effective SOS.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Sir, the car has arrived," Bennett announced, helping Addington into his overcoat.

          "Good.  Miss Previn, are you ready?"

          Helene looked up from the notebook computer she slipped into a travel bag, along with several files and her wallet.  "Yes, sir."

          "You should arrive in Colorado at 2 p.m., local time," Bennett said as he walked the pair to the large office doors.

          "Call if there's any word," Alexander instructed.

          "I will, sir."

          "I'll call you when we arrive," Helene promised the older man.

          "Thank you," Bennett said.  "Take care of him."

          She nodded, smiling slightly.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          His jacket stuffed full with small pine boughs, Stone staggered through the large SOS outline, leaving the foliage as a clear, though dashed, message for help.  When he finished, he checked his watch.  11:30 a.m.  They'd been on the ground nearly two hours.

          With a deep breath, he headed back to the tunnel, stopping short when he heard the faint pulse of a helicopter.

          "That was quick," he muttered under his breath.

          Raising a hand to shade his eyes, he scanned the skies for the chopper, but the sharp angles of the mountains made it impossible to determine the direction the craft was coming in from.  The sound grew louder and Stone swung around.

          "What is it?"

          The ex-SEAL glanced down at the tunnel and found Sinclair staring up at him.  "Chopper."

          A sharp crack reverberated across the landscape and Stone spun, collapsing into the snow alongside the tunnel entrance, blood spraying across the white snow.

          Sinclair started to crawl out, but a hissed, "Stay there, damn it," from the ex-SEAL held him in place.

          The helicopter rushed by overhead, then swung around and started back.

          "Get down," Stone growled.

Peter ducked out of sight as the chopper reached the downed man, hovering above for a closer look.

          Behind the shield of his sunglasses, Stone watched the man with the rifle lean out to check his work.  The ex-SEAL tensed, ready to roll into the tunnel if he decided to take a second shot, but the man only nodded and shouted something to the pilot.  The chopper swung off, disappearing over a pine-edged ridge.

          Sinclair's head poked back up.  "Are they gone?"

          "Yeah," Stone moaned as he struggled to sit up.  He looked down at his side.  It was only the distance of the shot that had saved his life.  Pressing his good hand against the bleeding wound, he let Peter help him into the tunnel and back to the plane.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Just beyond the gate for the Concord a young man in a pilot's uniform stood with a small sign that read:  Addington International.  Alexander saw it first and guided Helene to join the man.

          "Mr. Addington?" the young man asked, looking slightly nervous – he'd never met his boss before.

          "Yes."

          "If you'd follow me, the plane's waiting."

          "How long before we can take off?" the industrialist asked.

          "Twenty minutes after you board," he said.

          "Good man," Alexander complimented.

          "J.J.'s a friend of mine," the young man replied.

          "Ours, too," Helene said.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Peter helped Stone into the luggage compartment, then into the main body of the plane, watching the man carefully.

          "Hey, Pete, what was that noise?" J.J. asked from the bed.

"It sounded like a gunshot."

          "It was," Stone confirmed, managing two steps toward the bed before his knees gave way and he dropped heavily to the floor.  He took a deep breath, trying to stall the blackness, but it rushed in, overwhelming him, and he pitched forward.

          Sinclair rushed forward, just managing to catch Stone before his face hit the floor.  He hissed as the American's weight landed partly on his wrist, but held on until he could lay the ex-SEAL on the floor.

          "Stone?  Come on, pal, hang in there."

          There was no response and Sinclair scrambled up.  Rushing to the small refrigerator, he opened it and removed a bottle of water.  Carrying it back to Stone, he opened it, poured it over his handkerchief and used that to wipe the man's face.

          "Guess somebody doesn't want us gettin' out of here," was the mumbled reply from the injured man.

          "You can say that again."

          The eyes blinked open.  "No," Stone hissed, "I don't think… I could."

          "Don't talk," Peter instructed.

          Stone let his eyes fall close, trying to ignore the waves of fire that were starting to radiate out from his side and claw their way through his chest and abdomen.

          Sinclair looked up, meeting J.J.'s concerned gaze.  "Hand me the first aid kit."

          J.J. grabbed the kit and passed it to Peter.

          Sinclair opened the plastic box, pulling out the scissors.  Unzipping Stone's jacket, he used the instrument to cut the blood-soaked T-shirt up the middle, pulling back the edges to uncover the man's chest.  The side wound was red and puckered.

"Stone?"

          "Yeah, Pete," he replied, eyes still closed.

          "I'm going to lift you up.  I need to see if there is an exit wound."

          Stone nodded and Peter reached out, using his uninjured hand to lift the man's shoulder.  He looked, then lowered Stone back down.

          "Well?"

          "None.  No exit wound."

          "Nicked my hip.  Slowed it down," Stone said, his eyes opening as Sinclair applied a field first-aid dressing.  "Not too tight.  Can't control internal bleedin' with pressure… too much'll do more damage."  He ground his teeth and groaned as the fires erupted across his hip again.  The numbness had finally worn off.

          "Where'd you learn all the first aid?" Peter asked, trying to give his friend something to concentrate on besides the pain.

          "SEALs," Stone said, a brief smile lifting his lips.  "Six-month long course… pure hell…"

          "It's paid off this trip, my friend."  He finished securing the dressing, then pulled the T-shirt back together, cutting off the blood-soaked sections and zipping up the jacket to keep Stone warm.

          Rubbing his face, Peter flashed another glance to J.J., then shook his head and shrugged.  He had no idea how bad the injury really was.

          "Peter?"

          Sinclair stood and moved to the bed.  "I'm right here, sweetheart."  Bending down, he brushed the hair off Gabrielle's cheek.  "What is it?"

          "How's Stone?" she asked in a whisper.

          He glanced at the supine body.  "Not good, but he'll make it."

          "I hope so," she replied.

          "You can take that to the bank," he whispered, using one of Stone's favorite expressions.

          She gave him a sympathetic smile, but the tears welling in her eyes reflected his true feelings much more accurately than the bravado.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          A sheriff's deputy met them as Alexander and Helene stepped into the Denver terminal.  "Mr. Addington?" the man asked.

          "Yes, have they been found?"

          "No, sir, not yet."

          "Why the hell not!" the industrialist demanded.

          The deputy dipped his head, refusing to meet the angry man's eyes.  "We're having a hard time triangulating the homing beacon.  The area where they went down is very rough terrain.  The mountain peaks are breaking up the transmission."

          "What do you need?" Addington demanded.  "Tell me and I'll have it here A-S-A-P.  Whatever it is."

          The young man shook his head.  "It's not that, Mr. Addington.  We've got the most sophisticated equipment for this kind of search and rescue in the world.  We'll find them, but it's just taking a little longer than we'd hoped."

          "Where are we going?" Helene asked the deputy.

          "We've got a command and control center set up at one of the resorts.  I'll drive you."

          "Thank you," Alexander said, looking slightly sheepish.

          "We'll find them, Mr. Addington," the deputy assured.

          Alexander nodded, silently praying the man was right.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Sitting on the floor, a blanket draped over his shoulders, Peter checked his watch – six hours since they had crashed.  At least the chopper hadn't returned, but it was getting cold, and once the sun set, any chance for rescue would have to be put on hold until the morning.

          He flashed a tired smile at Gabrielle, who sat watching he and Stone.  At least she was still awake – groggy, but awake.  And J.J. was doing okay, seated now in the leather chair behind the desk, a revolver within easy reach if their attackers decided to return.

          Stone had suggested that Peter put snow packs on his ankle and his wrist before he finally slipped unto unconsciousness, and the treatment had worked.  Sinclair felt better, but Stone…

          He looked over at his friend, who was lying quietly on the couch, and sighed.  Stone was another thing altogether.

          Leaning forward, he lifted the blanket and jacket to check the dressing.  The bloodstain had spread, but the dressing wasn't soaked – yet.

The ex-SEAL's eyes never opened.  "Doin' fine, Pete."

          "Just checking."

          "Appreciate it, but you're lettin' in a draft."

          "Sorry," Peter said with a thin smile.  He lowered the jacket and tucked the blanket back into place.  "That better?"

          "Much."

          "How long do you think it will take them to find us?" Gabrielle asked.

          "Hard to say," J.J. responded.  "If the homing beacon's working, I'd say any time now."

          "These peaks'll break up the transmissions," Stone offered.  "Might take 'em a little longer."

          "It'll be dark soon," Peter said.  "If they don't find us before dark, we'll have to wait until morning."

          "We'll freeze," Gabrielle said, her voice as worried as her expression.

          Peter shook his head, an almost teasing grin on his face.  "No, we won't.  We'll huddle on the bed and share body heat."

          Stone snorted.  "Sounds kind 'a kinky to me, Pete."

          "We'll put you in the middle," Sinclair needled, thankful for the momentary lift of the tension.

          Gabrielle giggled.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "We've got them!"

          Addington pushed himself off the couch and stalked over to join the young woman manning the radio.  "Are they all right?" he demanded.

          Helene crossed from where she was sitting near the large roaring fireplace.  Stopping next to Addington, she rested a hand on his arm.

          Both waited as the young woman's hopeful expression shifted to one of confusion and anger.  "Repeat?" she said.  "They're what?"

          "What is it?" Helene whispered.

          "I don't know," Addington replied, his eyes narrowing.  "But I don't like the sound of it."

          "Roger.  I'll contact the police."  The woman set the radio mike aside and picked up the phone and dialed.  "Hi, this is Sara Richards with Colorado Search and Rescue. We're working the downed Addington jet and we've got a real problem up here.  We've located the plane, but there's a chopper up there, shooting at our people."

          "What?!" Addington exploded.

          Sara ignored the outburst, saying to the police dispatcher, "No, no injuries, but we can't get close enough to try and extract the passengers…  No, they said it looks like the plane's buried under an avalanche.  The only way we're going to get people to them is to drop them off with our chopper, but not with some idiot taking potshots at us…  Right… okay.  Thanks."

          As soon as she hung up the phone she turned to face the anxious pair hovering behind her chair.  "I'm sorry, Mr. Addington, but until the authorities can get that hostile chopper out of the area, there's nothing we can do."

          "What did the police say?" Alexander asked.

          "They're sending out two choppers to see if they can't move those guys out of there."

          "And our people?" Helene asked.

          "I don't know.  The plane's almost entirely buried, but there's a SOS lying in the snow, so someone must've made it out."

          "What aren't you telling us?" Addington asked, watching the woman's eyes.

          She frowned, but answered.  "The ground unit that found them is up on a clear ridge, out of the avalanche danger, but they have a good view of the slope the plane's resting on.  They spotted what they think might be blood on the snow."

          "So one of them is hurt?" Helene asked.

          She nodded.  "There were no bodies, so it's a good bet that whoever was injured made it back into the plane."

          "Can they survive overnight?"

          "We think so.  The snow covering the plane should give them some protection, and if they're inside and dry they stand an excellent chance of making it through the night."

          "And if one of them is hurt?" Alexander asked quietly.

          "I can't really answer that, sir," she told the industrialist.  "It would depend on how bad the injury is."

          Addington nodded somberly.  "How long before you have to leave them out there?"

          She checked the clock.  "It's three now… the sun sets between four and five…  If the police can get that chopper out of the way we might be able to bring them in tonight."

          "And if they can't?" Helene asked.

          "Then we'll try again first thing in the morning."

          "How long can they last out there?"

          "That's an unknown, Mr. Addington, but we've got a storm system expected in here mid-morning tomorrow.  If we don't have them out by then… let's just say their chances are going to fall off pretty steeply."

          Alexander nodded.  "I see."

          "I wish I had better news."

          "I appreciate your honesty.  Now, I need to make a call."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Four p.m.," Peter announced more cheerfully than he felt.  "Guess we'd better plan on spending the night."

          A muffled blast stalled the conversation, the almost immediate shockwave prompting them all to grab on to the furniture.

          "What was that?" J.J. asked, reaching for the revolver.

          "Some kind of explosive," Stone said, forcing himself to sit up on the couch.

          "Our friends in the helicopter," Sinclair guessed.

          "Coming back to finish what they started."

          "Stone, always an optimist," the ex-detective countered.

          "I dumped the fuel," J.J. said, "but a direct hit's something I'd like to avoid."

          "Give me the revolver," Peter said, limping over to the desk.  J.J. handed the weapon over.

          "Be careful, Pete," Stone said.  "If they drop a charge too close the snow's not gonna protect you."

          "I'll be careful," Sinclair replied, heading for their exit.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "What?" Sara turned from her radio set, calling, "Mr. Addington, I think you better hear this."

          Alexander and Helen levered off the raised hearth together and hurried to join her.  Sara switched to speaker.

          "Yeah, the chopper's dropping dynamite, looks like they're trying to hit the plane.  ETA for the sheriff's birds is three minutes.  One, maybe two of the passengers, is firing at the chopper, and that's keeping it back, but I don't know for how long.  I hope the pilot managed to dump his fuel."

          "Roger that," Sara replied.

          "Can't they do anything?" Addington demanded.

          The woman shook her head.  "They're not armed, Mr. Addington.  They're just a Search and Rescue unit."

          "Sara, you there?"

          She turned back to the radio.  "I'm here, Jim."

          "Sheriff's choppers are here, they chased the guy off.  I think the cops are trying to follow this idiot back to wherever he's based."

          "Can you get to the victims?"

          "Negative.  Our rides are bird-doggin' that chopper; looks like they're on their own for the night."

          "Understood," Sara said.

          "Damn," Addington huffed.  He turned to Helene.  "We'd better call Bennett, bring him up to date."

          She nodded.  "I'll take care of it, sir."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The threesome listened as Peter fired on the circling chopper.  After a couple of minutes Stone pushed himself off the couch.

          "Where are you going?" Gabrielle asked.

          "To help Pete."

          "You're not going to be any help if you collapse."

          "I'm not gonna pass out," he argued, blinking rapidly to stop the vertigo that threatened to force him back onto the couch.  "Not yet, anyway."

          "Stone!"

          "Let him go," J.J. told her.  "He knows his limits."

          "He knows how to push them," she corrected, pressing her hand against her head, trying to push the pain back, but it flared through her temples like a hot fire.

          "You okay?" the pilot asked.

          She nodded, very carefully.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Give me a gun, Pete."

          The voice didn't really surprise him, but it did make him angry.  "Stone, get below!"

          "Give me a damned gun."

          Cursing under his breath, Sinclair handed over his Beretta.

"Thank you," was the amused reply as the ex-SEAL maneuvered into the snow for support.  He jerked the weapon up and fired twice as the chopper passed overhead.

          Sinclair fired as well, aiming for the open door and the man who continued to drop the explosives.  "Down!" he yelled as another pair of dynamite sticks tumbled toward them.

          Both men burrowed into the snow, their arms wrapped protectively over their heads.  The explosion sent clouds of snow chunks raining down on them.

          "That was too close," Stone said as he stood.

          "You're telling me?"

          "The cavalry's here."

          The two men watched as the sheriff's choppers chased the marauder off.

          "That means they've found us," Peter said, a smile curling his lips.

          "Yeah, but they're not gonna get us out tonight."

          "Why not?"

          "Snow's too loose.  They'll have to lower people in with those choppers.  Depending on how long the chase lasts, they won't have enough daylight left."

          "Damn," Sinclair sighed.  "Looks like we really are spending the night."

          "Yep, and we better hope our friends don't decide to try something stupid."

          "What do you mean?"

          "Those guys are gonna know we're outta here in the morning.  That means they've only got to first light to finish the job."  Stone flashed Peter a smile. "But at least we know when they're comin'."

          "Bloody marvelous."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Helene blinked several times, realizing that she had dozed off in the comfortable padded chair near the large fireplace.  The warmth from the burning wood wrapped her in the smell of pine and a cheery glow.  Outside a light snowfall filled the corners of the windows with lace designs.  If it weren't for the situation, she knew she would have found the setting romantic.

          Sitting up straighter, she glanced around the large lounge, deciding that the resort must do a very good business in the ski season.  She spotted Alexander at a smaller window near one corner of the room.  Standing, she walked quietly over to join him.  The view he was taking in threatened to take her breath away.  Mountain peaks broke the horizon, jutting up in rugged beauty.  Pines edged the side, breaking up the white snow.  The clouds, broken along the mountain tops, allowed light from the nearly full moon to shine across the snow.

          "Beautiful, isn't it," Alexander said quietly.

          "Yes.  It is."

          "They're out there…" he continued, his voice going soft.  "…hurt, maybe dying, and there's absolutely nothing we can do to help them."

          "They will all be fine," she assured him.  "The search and rescue teams will get to them as soon as it is light."

          Addington nodded.  "Twelve hours from now."

          "It is the best they can do… the best we can do."

          Addington raised a hand and waved her comments off.  "I know, I know."

          "What's wrong?" she asked, daring to rest a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder.

          He didn't look at her, but he didn't pull away either.  "Is it worth it?  Is what they do worth their lives, Miss Previn?"

          "You know the answer, Alexander."

          "I'm not so sure anymore."

          "Then you'll have to wait and ask them, tomorrow."

          He turned away, nodding.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Peter's eyes opened, but he remained motionless.  Something had woken him, but what?  He listened, but there was nothing.  Carefully he rolled his head to the side, checking on the others.  Gabrielle and J.J. were in the bed, talking quietly.  Nearby one of the slender dinner-table candles burned, casting soft orange shadows through the interior of the plane.  Stone had insisted that they keep her awake for twenty-four hours, and sat with her himself for almost four hours before J.J. took over.

          Sinclair rolled his head the other way.  Stone was back on the couch.  But he was awake, too.  He hiked his eyebrows.

          The ex-SEAL touched a finger to his lips, then nodded toward the open door to the service and cockpit area.

Sinclair strained, listening for whatever it was that Stone heard.  Finally, he heard it –a soft crunching sound that was steadily growing louder.

Someone was walking toward them in the snow.

          Stone sat up, the sweat on his face shining in the pale candle light.  J.J. and Gabrielle fell silent, catching sight of the ex-SEAL's serious expression.  Together Stone and Peter moved to either side of the door, then into the service space.

          "Time to see who's dropped in for a visit," Stone said, his voice pitched low, but not at a whisper.

          Peter nodded.  Given the explosions earlier in the day, they had little choice.  Whoever was out there might be setting more charges that could kill them.

          Stone led the way, moving slowly, favoring his side.  Peter suggested twice that he leave the task to the detective, but it got him nowhere.

          A raised hand stopped Sinclair and he froze, waiting to see what had caught Stone's attention.  When the man didn't move, he inched closer, peering over the American's shoulder.  From their position in the shadows of the tunnel they watched two men working over a silver suitcase they both guessed held another, bigger bomb.

          "Okay, that's got it," one said from behind his ski mask.  "Let's get the hell out of here."

          "Right behind you.  How long do we have?"

          "Twenty minutes, then it's so long to Addington's strike team."

          "Yeah, and hello fifty-thousand dollars."

          The two men moved off using the large snowshoes they wore to good advantage.  Stone let them get ten yards before he whistled.

          The two men turned, weapons coming up.  Stone raised his Baretta and fired off two quick shots.  Both of the men fell, but one managed to get a shot off.  It flew wide, hitting the exposed section of the wing.

          "Check them," Stone said.

          Sinclair flashed the man an angry glare.  "Why did you kill them?"

          "Because when the bomb doesn't go off, they'd be back," was the simple, perfectly reasonable reply.  Stone eased past Peter and crawled painfully over to the suitcase.

          With a swallowed curse, Sinclair crawled out to the two men and checked.  Detaching the two pairs of snowshoes, he crawled back to join Stone.  "They're dead," he said.

          Stone grunted, working over the bomb.  With a swift yank, he pulled a wire free, grateful that the almost full moon gave him enough light to work by.  "Okay.  That should do it."

          "Damn it, Stone.  You killed those men," Peter said, grabbing the man's arm.

          "Let's get back inside."

          "Why?" he demanded.

          Stone's eyes narrowed.  "Because it was them or us, Pete, and as far as I'm concerned, we're more important."

          "We could've taken them prisoner."

          "And if they have friends?"

          "Those 'friends' might still show up."

          "Maybe," Stone admitted.  "But if they do, we won't have two enemies in our camp.  We're in no shape to guard two guys who're trying to kill us."  Stone shivered.  "Look, you don't like it, fire me, but right now I'm getting back inside before I freeze to death."

          Sinclair was angry, but there was no reason to stay out in the cold and argue with Stone.  But then arguing with the stubborn American was about as useful as beating your head against a wall.  "Fine," he said.

          Hefting the suitcase Stone crawled after Peter.  Back inside the plane, the ex-SEAL eased himself down onto the couch with a long shuddering sigh.

          "What happened?" J.J. asked.

          "Two men—" Peter started.

          "Dropped by to finish the job," Stone finished, patting the silver briefcase at sat next to the couch.

          "A bomb?" Gabrielle asked, her blue eyes going wide.

          "A bomb," Peter confirmed, watching Stone as the man grimaced.

          "And guns," Stone added, winning himself a glower from Sinclair, but the blond didn't like what he saw.

Moving over to Stone, he tugged the blanket free and covered the man's legs, then checked the dressing.  It was soaked though.  He watched as the ex-SEAL swallowed, then panted, trying to fight the pain back down to a manageable level.

          "Anything I can do?" he asked.

          Stone rolled his head.  "Fever's buildin'."

          Reaching out, Peter pressed his hand to Stone's cheek, resisting the immediate instinct to pull it away.  The fever wasn't building, it was raging.

          "I'm fine, mother," Stone muttered.

          Peter exchanged a worried look with J.J. and Gabrielle, then hobbled over to get another bottle of water.  Bringing it back to Stone, he wet a washcloth and used it to wipe the man's face, then left it on his forehead.  It was all he could do.

          "Thanks," Stone said softly, his eyes dropping closed.

          "Anytime, sport," Peter replied.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          An hour before dawn Sinclair woke with a start.  Stone was struggling weakly on the couch.

          "Peter?"

          He sat up and rubbed his face.  "Gabrielle?"

          "It's Stone, he's in a lot of pain."

          At the couch, Peter found his teammate pale, damp, and clammy to the touch.  Checking Stone's pulse made Sinclair's pound.  It was weak and almost too fast to count, and the labored, wheezing pant that passed for breathing sent chills down the blond's back.

          Limping to the coat closet, Peter pulled out the two jackets that were left and carried them over to Stone, adding to the layers and hoping the additional warmth would help.

Stone's eyes fluttered open.

          "Easy," Peter said, easing down to kneel next to the couch.  "It's almost dawn.  Not much longer."

          Stone nodded.  "Pete…"

          "Right here."

          "Elevate… my feet…"

          Sinclair helped Stone inch down on the leather sofa, then lifted his feet, resting them against the wall of the plane.  "That okay?"

          Stone nodded again, grinding his teeth against the escalating torment that clawed through his midsection like a banshee determined to gut him.

          Wetting the washcloth again, Peter placed it on the man's forehead.  "Hang in there, Stone."

          "Too damn mean t' die," he wheezed.  "'Sides, gotta stick around so you can fire me."

          Sinclair reached out, giving the man's good shoulder a reassuring squeeze and silently prayed he was right.  "You're only fired if you die.  Understand?"

          "I hear ya, boss."

          "You bloody well better," he growled.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Addington stood at the window, watching the first hint of dawn set the mountain tops aglow.  The sound of someone coming up behind him forced him to turn.  It was the deputy who had met them the day before.

          "Mr. Addington," the officer greeted him.

          "Any word?"

          "The choppers are fueling up now.  They'll be up in ten.  And we have a gunship on loan from the Army National Guard in case we run into trouble."

          "That's a step in the right direction."

          "It'll keep whoever's trying to kill your people away long enough for Search and Rescue to get them out."

          "I hope you're right."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Gabrielle looked up.  "Do you hear that?"

          "I do," J.J. confirmed.

          Peter grabbed the guns and cautiously made his way outside.  Three choppers dropped over the mountaintops and swung toward him.  Help had finally arrived.

          He ducked down and yelled, "Help's on the way.  Get ready to go!"

          He waited in the cold while four men winched down on cables.

"Hi, Colorado Search and Rescue, ready to go home?" a man greeted.

          "More than ready," Peter said.  "But we have an injured man."

          "Show me," the man said, pulling off his goggles and following Peter into the tunnel.

          Sinclair moved to the bed to stay out of the way while two of the men started to work on Stone.  The other two checked Gabrielle and J.J. over, then escorted them out.

          Peter sat down on the bed to take the weight of his still aching ankle and watched the men working on Stone.  They were swift and efficient.  As soon as they started an IV one rose and left.  The other man turned to Peter.  "We'll get you out next, then get a basket in here for him."

          "Will he make it?"

          "Can't make any promises," the man replied, then added, "Oh, and your boss is here."

          "Alexander?"

          The man nodded.  "He's been hovering over our dispatcher like a starving vulture to hear her tell it.  I think she'll be glad to get rid of him."

          Peter grinned.  "I can just imagine."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Roger, Jim, thanks," Sara said.  Sliding the mike into its clip, she turned to face Addington.  "They've got all four of them out.  The choppers will take them to the hospital in Vail."

          "Are they all right?" Helene asked.

          "Some minor injuries mostly… but only one is critical."

          "Who?" Addington demanded.

          "I don't know," Sara said, her tone sympathetic.  "Look, why don't I drive you over to the hospital?"

          "Thank you, that would be very kind," Helene said, reaching out to rest a hand lightly on Alexander's arm.

          He covered her hand with his own, and nodded.  "Yes, thank you.  All of you."

          "Come on," Sara said, slipping on her jacket.  "It's not too far."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Addington followed the nurse into the ER treatment room where two nurses and a doctor were working on Peter and J.J.  Both men looked up and smiled.

          Addington moved closer.  "Are you two all right?"

          "They will be," the doctor said.  "Mr. Johnson has three cracked ribs, and some impressive bruises, but he's in no danger.  And Mr. Sinclair has a fractured wrist and a sprained ankle."

"What about Ms. Germont and Mr. Stone?" Addington asked.

          "Mr. Stone is in surgery, Ms. Germont in x-ray," the physician explained.

          "She took a pretty nasty blow to the head, I'm afraid," Peter explained.

          "It looks like a mild concussion, but we want to be sure," the doctor added.

          "Of course, of course.  And Stone?"

          Peter and J.J. glanced away, making the pit of Addington's stomach burn.  "Doctor?"

          "He was shot," the man explained.  "We sent him straight up to surgery.  I'm afraid I don't have any more news for you than that.  Why don't you find a seat in the waiting room?  As soon as I'm finished, Mr. Johnson and Mr. Sinclair can join you there."

          Alexander nodded.  He looked up, meeting Peter's troubled gaze.  "I'll see you there.  I have to let Helene— Ms. Previn know."

          "Yes, sir," Sinclair said.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The foursome sat in silence in the small waiting room.  After nearly two hours Gabrielle joined them as well.  Helene stood and gave her a tight hug before guiding her over to the comfortable couch.  "Are you all right?" she asked as both sat down.

          Gabrielle nodded.  "Just a bad headache."

          "Well, thank God for that," Alexander said, moving over to sit next to Gabrielle.  He gave her a careful hug.

          "How's Stone?" she asked.

          "We don't know," Peter said with a frustrated sigh.

          "He'll be okay," J.J. countered.  "You heard him.  He's too mean to die."

          Helene smiled and Addington chuckled softly.  "Now that I can believe," the Industrialist said softly.

          "Mr. Addington?"

          All five looked up, then stood as a handsome middle-aged woman stepped into the room to join them.

          "I'm Alexander Addington," he said, extending his hand.

          The woman shook it, saying, "Dr. Anna Witherspoon, Mr. Stone's surgeon."

          "How is he?" Peter asked, stepping closer to the woman.

          She tucked a stray strand of her silver-streaked brown hair behind her ear.  "He's in recovery and we've listed him as in serious condition, but I'm confident we'll be able to upgrade him to fair by tomorrow morning."

          "So he'll be okay?" J.J. asked.

          "I think so," Witherspoon said.  "The bullet passed through muscle, struck his pelvis bone and nicked an intestine.  We've repaired the damage and cleaned him up.  The rest is up to him, but he's a fighter."

          "That he is," Addington said, taking her hand again.  "Thank you, Doctor.  Thank you so very much."

          "When can we see him?" Gabrielle asked.

          "Tomorrow morning?" the physician guessed.  "He'll be out the rest of today."

          "Fine," Alexander said.  "Tomorrow will be fine."

          "Why don't all of you get something to eat and get some rest.  He won't be going anywhere.  Just call and let us know where you're staying.  If there's any change in his condition, we'll give you a call."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The group spent the afternoon in an elegant hotel suite, resting, occasionally picking at their room service meals, and trying to find ways to pass the time until they could excuse themselves and go to bed.  After J.J. gave in to his aching ribs, Peter and Addington sat alone in the common area made up to look like a rustic living room.

          They each sipped on a brandy and watched the fire snapping in the flagstone fireplace.  "How did the statements to the police go?" Addington asked.

          "Fine," Peter said.  "There was a little tension concerning the two men Stone shot, but given their earlier attack and the suitcase bomb, I don't think they'll be pressing any charges."

          "I should say not," Alexander said.  "If they try, we'll— we'll—"

          Sinclair chuckled.

          "What?" Addington demanded.

          "I'm worried about him, too."

          The industrialist dipped his head and grinned.  "He does grow on you, doesn't he."

          "Like grass on dirt, sir," Sinclair said, using Stone's promise from when he had joined the Counterstrike team.

          "He'll make it," Addington said softly.

          "I hope you're right, sir."

          "This was too much like— Well, like when we lost Luke," Alexander said.  "Too much death."

          Peter hesitated, then said, "No.  It's not like Luke."

          Alexander looked over at Sinclair.

          "Luke was…" Sinclair trailed off, then smiled, his gaze turning inward with the memories.  "He was like a younger… cousin, I suppose.  Someone I worked with, but who I also looked out for."

          "And Mr. Stone?"

          "Stone's not like that."  Peter leaned forward, setting his empty glass down on the hearth stones and staring into the fire.  "Stone's a professional.  I don't have to look after him… he's more than just a coworker, he's really more than just a friend."

          "A comrade in arms," Alexander said softly.

          Sinclair nodded.  "I trust him… more than I trusted Luke.  I trust Stone with my life, Gabrielle's… yours."

          Addington's eyebrows hiked slightly.

          Peter smiled briefly and shook his head.  "The brandy."

          "No," Alexander leaned forward, resting a hand on Sinclair's arm and giving it a squeeze.  "I was never blessed with a son—"

          "Sir—"

          "Let me say it, damn it."

          Sinclair grinned and looked away.  There was no deterring Alexander when he decided to do or to say something.  He was as bad as Stone, maybe even worse.

          "If I had, I would have been proud if he grew up to be a man like you."

          "I'm flattered, sir."

          "Don't be.  You've earned it."

          "And Stone?"

          "He's… different," Addington replied honestly.  "Mr. Stone is too much like me."

          Peter sat up straighter.  "You?"

          Alexander nodded.  "Oh, yes.  There was a time, after the war, well, let's just say that I see many, many echoes there."

          "What happened?" Peter asked.  "To change you, I mean?"

          "I was young, looking for something.  Something to make sense out of all the death I'd seen.  Money seemed like one avenue.  It certainly meant a comfortable avenue.  I started working, invested, made deals…"

          "Success smoothed the rough edges?"

          "No, not success.  Success put me in the right place at the right time."

          "Mrs. Addington?"

          Alexander nodded.  "Chantel worked on me like an obsessed diamond cutter.  A chip off here, a chip off there."

          "Then there's hope."

          "Hope?"

          "For Stone."

          Addington chuckled.  "Don't count on it.  Our Mr. Stone is quite happy being a diamond in the rough."

          "It's good enough for me."

          "For me, as well," Alexander admitted.  He patted Sinclair's arm.  "Now, let's get some sleep."

          "Go ahead, sir," Sinclair said.  "I think I'll sit here a little while longer."

          "Not too long," Alexander scolded.  "You won't help him if you go in there tomorrow looking haggard."

          Peter nodded.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Breakfast was another quiet, hurried affair in a private room in the resort's best restaurant.  As soon as they were done, Peter arranged for a taxi to take them to the hospital.

          They arrived to find a message waiting for them, asking them to see Dr. Witherspoon.  An orderly gave them directions and Addington led the way.  He paused outside the door just long enough to rap once, then turned the handle and walked in.

          Dr. Witherspoon looked up from a chart she was making notes on and smiled.  "Ah, Mr. Addington, you're here sooner than I expected."

          "We want to see our friend," Gabrielle said.

          "I know.  Please, come in and have a seat, well, I have two."

          Addington and Helene sat, Peter, Gabrielle and J.J. stood behind them.

          The doctor waited until they were all settled, then said, "I looked in on Mr. Stone this morning," she began.  "The wound's draining, the infection's under control, and we're replacing the blood he lost."

          "Then he's doing very well," Helene said, her expression brightening.

          Witherspoon nodded.  "Physically, yes, he seems to be doing wonderfully."

          "But?" J.J. asked.

          The doctor met the pilot's gaze for a moment, then said, "But he hasn't woken up."

          "Is that unusual?" Sinclair asked.  "I mean, after the shock his system's been through?"

          The doctor leaned back in her chair.  "Normally I would agree with you, Mr. Sinclair, but in this case I'm not so sure.  Physically Mr. Stone is in excellent shape, and given the scars I saw in surgery, he's been shot before.  And he is much better this morning than I was hoping for.  There's no reason I can come up with to explain it.  Did he hit his head in the crash?"

          Peter shook his head.  "I don't think so.  He didn't mention it if he did."

          Witherspoon frowned.

          "He's not in a coma, is he?" Addington asked.

          "No, he's not in a coma, and he responds to stimuli, but he's just not awake."

          "What do you suggest?" Helene asked.

          "I'd like you to talk to Dr. Cliff.  Dan Cliff.  He's our neurologist."

          Addington nodded and Witherspoon picked up her phone and punched out the four number extension.  "Dan?  Hi, listen, Mr. Stone's friends are in my office; can you come over?  Great, thanks."  She hung up.  "He'll be here in a minute.  And if you don't mind, I'm going to grab a cup of coffee before I have to make my rounds."

          Alexander stood as she did.  "Thank you, Doctor."

          "My pleasure," she said, shaking his hand and passing Cliff as she stepped outside.

          The young man smiled a little self-consciously as he maneuvered around the five and took a seat behind Anna's desk.  "I'm guessing that Anna told you what the situation is?"

          They nodded.

          "What I'd like to ask is that all of you take turns sitting with Mr. Stone.  You can do it in pairs if that's easier.  I'm hoping that if he hears you there, it will help him wake up."

          "We'd be happy to do anything you think is necessary," Addington said.  "When do we start?"

          "Right now," the physician said.  "Follow me."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Having something to do made the day pass quickly.  J.J. and Gabby took the first watch with Stone, sitting and talking with him and each other for a little over two hours.  Helene and Alexander were next for another two hours, then Peter.  With still no change, J.J. and Gabby returned, then Alexander and Helene and finally Peter, who planned to sit with Stone until the end of the hospital's visiting hours.

          Sinclair left long enough to get himself a cup of coffee, finding four expectant expressions as he stepped into the cafeteria.  "Nothing," he reported.

          "Damn," Alexander said, slapping his leg.

          Peter finished one cup in the cafeteria with the others, then took a refill with him back to Stone's room.  The man looked like he was sleeping, and Sinclair slid back into the over-familiar chair as quietly as he could.  Sipping on the coffee, he waited in silence.

          After several minutes Stone moaned.

          Sinclair set the coffee down on the nightstand and moved to the bedside.  "Stone?" he called softly.

          Another groan.

          "Stone, come on, sport.  Wake up."

          "'m awake," Stone slurred, his eyes still closed.  "That my coffee?"

          Sinclair smiled.  "No, it's mine."

          "Selfish bastard," the ex-SEAL grumbled.

          Peter chuckled.  "If you promise to stay awake, I'd be happy to go get you some coffee."

          "Just pour it into the IV," Stone replied.  "I need a caffeine fix."

          "The doctor says another couple of days and I'm outta here," Stone explained to the gathering standing around the foot of his bed.  It made him slightly uncomfortable and pleased him at the same time.

          "Glad to hear it," Addington said, reaching out to pat the man's blanket-covered leg.  "There's all that paperwork to get caught up on, not to mention planning for our Iberian delegation."

          Stone rolled his eyes.  "Work, work, work."

          "Hey, we all gotta do what we gotta do," J.J. teased.

          Stone looked at J.J.  "Promise not to crash the plane on the way home?"

          "I promise," J.J. said, giving the man a salute.  "Looks like Calbath had someone plant a small bomb on the plane before we took off."

          "But he won't be doing anything like that again," Peter assured.  "He's in custody in San Francisco, as are the other two men who attacked us from the chopper."

          "Glad to hear it," Stone said.  "And I take it the local cops aren't planning on arresting me for the two bombers as soon as I'm discharged?"

          "No," Alexander said.  "The authorities… understood the situation."

          Stone nodded, looking at Gabrielle.  "How's the head?"

          She gave him a half-shrug.  "Still hurts a little, but not too much.  I'll be back to work before you are."

          "Always knew you were hard-headed," he teased.

          Gabrielle wagged her eyebrows at him.

          "Well," Addington said, "let's give Mr. Stone some time to rest.  Good work," he added.

          Stone nodded, watching them all go except Sinclair, who remained rooted at the foot of his bed.  "What's up, Pete?"

          Sinclair walked around the bed and sat down in the chair.  "I just wanted to say that I was wrong out there."

          Stone looked confused.  "Come again?"

          "About the shooting."

          The ex-SEAL shrugged.  "I understand where you're comin' from, Pete.  It's just not the same place I come from."

          "I know that.  I just wanted you to know that I understand why you did it, and that you were right.  It had to be done."

          "I appreciate that."

          "But next time, let's just take them into custody, shall we?"

          Stone grinned.  "I'll see what I can do."

          Peter stood.  "Get well, sport.  We miss you."

Stone put on his best innocent expression.  "Ah, gee, thanks, Pete."

          "Sod," the blond replied under his breath, but he smiled.  They had survived, again.


End file.
